


Feels Like We Only Go Backwards

by violentsdelight



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7479501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentsdelight/pseuds/violentsdelight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey's a free man, as of today. Three months of his life passed him by, and he's ready to catch up and start again. And maybe his past will find a way to catch up with him too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He's Out

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to write this, as it's been stirring in my idea box for a while. It's not anything original, just my attempt to imagine and write out the future, in a way that I would like for it to go. I miss them, so I'm satisfying my needs by my own means. This also focuses on Mickey and his life, because to me he needs more exploring and more attention than he gets, and I want his character to have so many good things. I hope you like this beginning. It's happening post season 6.

Everything had happened so quickly. 

One second Mickey was out in the courtyard for the last permitted hours of the day before everyone was sent inside – after he'd spent the whole day searching for a cigarette so he wouldn't scratch his eyeballs out, due to the price of a packet having skyrocketed and his commissary account being scarce – and finally being able to smoke it, the smoke filling up his lungs like a fish diving back into water after flopping on land. He was minding his own business, just like in juvie he'd made it clear from day one he wasn't putting up with any bullshit, enhancing his threat by fisting his inked knuckles in more than one daring face, and that had managed to keep people under control around him.  
He stood in his usual spot, at the furthest point out in the yard, leaning against the rattling fence, cherishing every drag as he stared out as far as the forest would allow him, tall dressed trees making up most of the view. His rules weren't always respected though, and every other day someone would be under the false impression that they could approach him, even though it didn't take long for their misjudgment to be rectified. Mickey blew out the smoke through his nostrils, eyeing the emerald green trees in his periphery, reflected by the sleeping sun. Mickey knew he didn't have long. That's why when someone interrupted his last moments, his first instinct was to turn around and shut them down, but he came to a halt when he faced the familiar blue uniform of an officer and immediately stepped back.

“Milkovich, follow me.” 

“It's not time yet and i've still got half 'a this to fucking finish,” he motioned to his halfway burned through cigarette, a pleading tone accompanying.

“Not my problem. Let's go.” 

Mickey cursed under his breath but knew better than to resist, and reluctantly dropped his treasure, making a point of squashing it with force into the muddy ground. He'd followed the guard through the hallways, getting looks from all around. He trailed behind, still following but not understanding what the fuck all this was about, so keeping his distance all the same. The officer twisted his head more than once to check on him, as if he was a dog following his owner. Mickey tried to think what was happening, the most obvious assumption being an assessment of his stay, meetings that happened every so often. He rolled his eyes at the thought, disappearing through the door the guard had opened and now making his way down a long and empty corridor he hadn't visited before.

“The fuck are we going?” He asked, his pace now in rhythm with the guard's, who seemingly pretended like Mickey hadn't just spoken. Mickey huffed at his unwilling desire to cooperate. Apparently making inmates sweat was a part of their job.

“Through here.” The guard gestured to a room at the end of the corridor, sending him in and closing the door behind him, leaving Mickey alone in what he assumed was what they used to slowly torture you – locking you in here until it drives you crazy – the four plain walls feeling as if they were caving in on him. The door opened again and the same guard, whose name tag he managed to catch on a glimpse was Officer Jenkins, came over to him and dragged him to the seat in front of the table, the only furniture in the room. A metal loop was instilled on the table, and he frowned as he looked at it, his question being answered right after as his wrist was being cuffed, bound to the metal loop. Mickey now had no idea what was going on, but the restraints on his wrists were starting to alarm him and his heartbeat picked up.

“Can you please fucking tell me what's going on? What have I done?” He harshly inquired, his tone a little more frantic than he'd hoped. 

Jenkins eyed him as he went for the door, calmly replying: “Just wait here.”

Mickey was left, chuckling by himself, because he didn't really have any other choice than to just wait, did he?

And the next, he was sitting in a cubicle too small for even an insect, waiting for what felt like an eternity for something he didn't even know. He thought over what could be the nature of this isolation, maybe it was solitary treatment. But for what? Mickey groaned and sighed at all this anticipation, losing track of time. There was no clock, which meant it could have been twenty minutes as well as two hours, who knew. He zoned in and out of reality, not enough distraction to keep him from wandering too far than was good for him in his own mind. That was what he'd learnt, since he'd been in. Don't wander. Stay grounded. He'd tamed himself to reduce his life to the prison. To stop thinking about what it was like on the outside, stop dreaming of leaving. To accept that he was stuck there for the better part of his life and that life would continue outside, without him. He knew all too well that hope only ever bred misery. 

The pain that shot through him every waking moment the first month had somehow with time eased into a dull sensation, at the back of his mind, like a lone black cloud, in his heart, an extra weight. But he stopped paying attention to it after a while, too numb to notice it any more than he noticed the mold on the bread or the blood in the shower rooms. It became a part of him, pumped by his heart, seathed in his skin – pain was a permanent resident. And it wasn't physical pain either, although it stung and pulsed every nerve in his body – it was something else. Mickey had spent too many nights facing the crumbling wall, the hard plank they called a bed digging in to his side, as he went over and over all the events of his life up until now, sometimes letting out a laugh at the fact that he ever thought he was destined for something other than incarceration. That ending up alone maybe wasn't inevitable, and that maybe, he'd finally found someone – yeah, Mickey had been an idiot.

“Mr. Milkovich?” A middle aged woman strided in, hair slicked back into a tight bun, her scalp visibly straining, navy blazer and folders to her chest, appearing in the form of a guardian angel to Mickey after the painful waiting.

Mickey lightly frowned. “Uh, yeah.”

He watched her drag out the seat opposite him and position herself. “I'm Leslie Perkins, and I'm here to talk to you about your case.”

Mickey stammered. “My, my what?”

Leslie offered a small smile. “Your case, Mickey, if I may call you that. I'm your appointed attorney, and I'll be dealing with you.”

He was sure his face offered no signs of understanding, eyebrows high and srunched. “Dealing with me how?”

“Well,” she crossed her hands in front of her on the table and side smiled, “to put it this way, if I deal with you correctly, you could be a free man by next week.”

* 

Leslie had dealt with him correctly to say the least, she'd managed to get him from two years off his sentence to the charges being dropped altogther. He might've just told her he could kiss her on the way out of the courtroom, before retreating and mumbling that she wasn't exactly his type. 

He'd never expected to see his sister waiting on his way out of the steel doors. He almost let his emotions get the best of him when they'd jumped in each other's arms and swayed for longer than normal, before Mickey vainly tried to salvage his macho persona and lightly punched her arm, to which she'd responded by shoving him and Mickey felt the best he'd felt in months.

And then Mandy had paused at a white ivory jeep and Mickey made a comment about how if he hadn't just got released and wasn't standing at the threshold of the prison he would've pulled an old antic and stolen it, but then she was pressing on an eletric button and the car unlocked, her taking the driver's seat and Mickey just standing in confusion until his sister honked the horn, blasting his eardrums and snapping him out of it. Mickey had taken too long to accept that that was really Mandy's car, repeating more than once that he'd just got out of prison and wouldn't go back for being caught in a stolen vehicule, earning himself some name calling and more shoves.

“I can't fucking believe this is yours,” Mickey announced, for the tenth time. “Please tell me you bought a mansion too or some shit and you're taking me there now.”

Mandy snorted, glimpsing at her brother's in-awe-face as he rubbed along the dark leather seats and smoothed his fingers along the panel in front of him. “I got a steady job, pays well. Thought I'd treat myself.”

“You did?” Mickey sounded surprised, but a surprise that was more of admiration.

“Yeah, I uh..” Mandy paused for a few seconds as Mickey just stared at her, eyebrows raised in expectancy, “I'm an escort.” Mickey's eyebrows found their natural position above his eyes as he slumped back in his seat, not saying anything, but vaguely bobbing his head up and down. Mandy felt uneasy and attempted to ease the tension. “It's a good job, Mickey. It's safe, I promise. It's completely real and-”

“Mandy.” Mickey interrupted, “it's cool. I'm not judging you. 'S long as you're safe and you get treated right, it's cool.”

She was set aback, her shoulders visibly relaxing at his words, nodding in appreciation. 

“I'm happy for you.” Mickey finished, a few moments later, his voice calm and sincere. He was. He truly was. It was comforting to know that while one Milkovich was fulfilling their pre destined future, rotting away in prison, another was defying that whole idea. When he was in, he thought about Mandy. He hadn't seen her for a while even before he got put in, and it did cause him to chew through most of his nails when he imagined her living in worse conditions than he was. And yet, here he was, out – and all the worry that had consumed him dissipated and gave way to relief, and pride. She looked better than he'd ever seen her, confident and sure, and she owned a fucking range rover. 

“Thanks Mick.”

They had so much to talk about, and conversation flowed between them, and it was funny because the Milkovich siblings weren't much talkers nor did they have a particularly close relationship. But now, sitting beside each other and Mickey feeling the most comfotable and at ease in months, he wanted to talk, and so he answered and made a few snarky comments and even took on more serious tones when they boarded more heavy leveled questions. And Mandy was listening the whole time, eyes on the road but nodding and turning to look at him whenever she could. 

“So uh..” Mandy started hesitantly, glancing at Mickey when they stopped at a red light. “You gonna see Ian?” 

Mickey shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly the car felt way too small and confined, and the air was too hot around him, and he harshly pressed on the window button, putting his head out like a dog when the outside air envelopped him. He'd known it was inevitable, how could it not be brought up, how would he have managed to avoid thinking about it, when it was really all he could think about. His response was vague and chorteled, but it was the truth and his throat swelled up as he struggled to let it out, “Don't know, Mands.”


	2. Saying It Out Loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No,” he finally said, resolute and sure, “no I don't have a boyfriend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, quick update! Also pretty proud of how long this turned out to be. A lot of stuff in here, some good, some bad, pretty intense to write anyhow. I hope you like it!!

Noise. Distant at first, but getting louder with every breath, as if life had been on mute but someone was gradually turning the volume up. Mickey groaned, already on his way back into consciousness, but not too pleased about it as he huffed and shifted and buried his head onto the soft pillow it was resting on. Reality was still out of touch but on his doorstep, as he faded back in, becoming more and more aware of life around him. His eyes remained sealed shut, as he stretched, letting small noises escape his mouth at the exquisite sensation of a real mattress, one that was meant for sleeping, too intense for him to think about anything else. His muscles pullled and released, accompanied by satisfied groans, until he flopped onto his back, sighing at the comfort.

His eyes didn't sting from all the prep his body had, slowly opening themselves and granting Mickey the vision to see what was around him. The first image that came through was the ceiling, that used to be white but was now a dirty grey. His eyes wandered over the plaster, focusing on cracks and fissures he'd never seen before, grazing over it as he took in every detail. It was strange, he decided, to be in his room again. To be able to rest in a bed that belonged to him, to breathe in air that circulated around his house. To just lie there, simply, and to not dread the day ahead, to not carry the impossible weight of counting down the last minutes of peace he'd get before he was forced awake from something that wasn't even sleep. The realisation hadn't settled in him yet, the concept of being free still ambiguous and not fully grasped by his mind, who was intent on perpetuating something that could be let go of. Despite him being back, it didn't feel right. As if his body was ahead of him, aware of something he wasn't, his arm twitched by his side, aching for something. He glanced down at it, resting over the sheet, and giving it what it wanted, letting it go, his mind granting it permission – so it wandered, slowly extending itself, roaming over the sheets, in a determined manner – like it was looking, searching for something. And it glided beside him, desperate to find it, over the space unoccupied by Mickey's body, to find the warmth, to find skin, to find him. And when Mickey twisted, following his hand like a beacon in the dark, his eyes leaving the ceiling and finding the other side of the bed, the emptiness and the absence of something that should have been there suddenly alarming. And his breathing slowed, his heart faltering in his chest, his mind now caught up with what his hand was looking for, as it lay lost where it was once found. He brought it upwards, knowing he shouldn't but not being able to stop himself, gripping onto the fuller pillow he'd so reluctantly given up, and dragging it towards him, until it was pressed into his chest, so close to his face. He dipped his head, burying it in the softness, his nose delved deep into the cotton fabric, and inhaling until his lungs were filled up. And there it was, still there, still knitted into the layers, the smell he'd grown so used to, the smell he used to spend hours drowning himself in – his smell.

*

Later, much later, after he'd fallen asleep once more, curled up with the pillow against his chest, Mickey emerged out of his room, the morning edging into noon. He heard rustling from the kitchen but ignored it on his way to the bathroom, eager to get in the shower for the first time since he'd been out. He stood under the nozzle, slowly twisting the knob. He'd spent three months of hiding away, feeling violated everytime he had to clean himself, it almost felt unnatural to stand so freely, bare and naked. The water came spraying out, hitting his skin delicately at first, then with more power the further his hand twisted. The heat engulfed him from all around, and he actually moaned at the feeling, tilting his head under the downpour, as the bathroom steamed up.  
He scrubbed and scrubbed, soaping up every part of him, watching as it swirled down the drain, as if stripping himself from those three months. He only stepped out of it when the water turned cold. 

When he was finally dry and clothed, his hair still dripping drops on his shoulders, he padded over to the kitchen. His sister came into view, messing about in front of the counters, moving quickly back to the cooker. Mickey blinked at the sight of her, her presence suddenly so unfamiliar and strange. It felt like it had been years since he'd woken up with her there, and it warmed his heart.

“Hey,” she broke him out of his daydream, as she kept her position but looked him over. “Came in with breakfast earlier, had to check if you were still breathing. Good sleep, huh?”

Mickey snorted. “Just felt good to be back in a bed that's actually made for sleeping.”

Mandy offered him a smile, “Sit down, I'm making eggs.”

Mickey complied, pulling out a chair and sitting himself down, his stomach now claiming food at the mention and the smell of it. She waltzed over, plates on her forearm and glasses in her other hand, her waitressing skills showing. She plopped his food in front of him, which he gladly accepted, diving his fork into it. Mickey nodded vividly in appreciation of the taste.

“This is so fucking good.” Mickey mumbled, still chewing.

“Jesus, if all it took was you going to prison to appreciate my cooking, shoulda thrown you in there years ago.” Mickey shot her an unamused look, to which she grinned. “I was thinkin' bout going to the store later, we can't survive off beer, as much as we'd like to.”

“I'll go. Got some shit to do anyway.” 

“What shit?” 

“My PO's gonna be on my ass, so I gotta look for some fucking source of income,” Mickey said, swallowing, before quietly adding, “and I thought I might go see Yev, you know, see how he's doing.”

Mandy coughed. “Your son?”

“How many other fucking Yev's do you know? Or did I accidentally knock up other Russian whores with fathers who have crazy names?” Mickey retorted, his eyebrows high up, the lines on his forehead visible. Mandy's face softened.

“That's great,” she replied, with more fondness than he was used to, making him squirm in his seat.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” She teased.

Mickey waved his hand in the air, directed at her face. “Like that, like you're homeless and I just gave you food.”

“Only you would know that look, Mickey.” Mandy observed.

“Fuck off,” he shot back, standing up to take the plates to the sink, then reaching for a lingering pack of cigarettes, taking one and securing it between his lips as it bobbed with the mouvements of his face when it lit up from a sudden idea. “Hey, can I use your car?”

Mandy fake thinked it over, giving it shortly after. “S'long as you don't hurt her.”

“Her? It's got fucking pronouns?” Mickey scoffed, now lighting up and taking a drag, eyeing his sister through the cloud of smoke.

Mandy ignored his question, walking over to him and plucking the cigarette out of his mouth, watching as his face immediately scrunched, ready to protest but she interrupted. “No scratches, you hear me?” She warned, hiding the pleasure she took in undermining her brother. She dropped the set of keys in his hand, blew the smoke out in his face and turned to hide her grin, as she walked off, shouting, “And don't forget to buy fucking food!”

Mickey had trouble remembering why he'd missed his sister, when he stood dumbfounded, his mouth missing it's usual accessory. 

* 

Mickey wouldn't admit it, but the car being a she quickly grew on him, as he praised her for every little thing, petting her and smoothing his hands over the steering wheel, sometimes even sweet talking her. He might have just moaned when he pressed on the accelerator and the engine grumbled in power. 

She shone like a diamond in a waste yard. On southside Chicago, cars like these didn't appear often, and when they did, they soon disappeared, except not with their rightful owner. It was risky but too fun, as Mickey lit up the dismal streets with her sparkling ivory, reflected by the sunlight, turning more than a few heads as he whizzed up and down, like a child playing with a miniature toy car. Except for Mickey wasn't a child, and the car wasn't a toy, especially not to be mistaken for one if Mandy was involved.

Eventually he pulled up, on a more quiet side of the street, trying to hide her as best as he could, except for she was “a big fucking thing” as Mickey muttered, stepping out and locking her behind him.

Mickey felt strange, that familiar feeling settling in his stomach, something uneasy making him twitch, as he made his way over to the Alibi, mentally preparing himself for his first official public appearance since three months back. Nothing could have prepared him.

The second Mickey walked through the door, his plan having been to pass incognito going down the drain as Kev's giant ass had spotted him immediately. As Mickey had expected, it was unnatural to expect Kev not to make a big scene, and braced himself as he hushed the entire bar, ready to announce Mickey's presence. 

“Mickey Milkovich is out!” He howled, and the bar errupted into a jumble of noise, even though Mickey was sure barely any of the people knew why they were shouting. Kev raised a glass as Mickey approached the counter, “How you doin' man?” He asked, still a mix of surprised and shocked. 

“Yeah, I'm good, man.” Mickey nodded.

“Holy fuck, just, how?” Kev yammered.

“Charges were dropped.” Mickey simply declared, not caring much to go into detail just then.

“That's great man! You gotta be over the moon huh?” 

Mickey stumbled for a bit. The question shouldn't have bothered him, but it did. Where it should've been answered immediately by vivid approval, instead it made the feeling in his stomach churn a little more. No, he didn't feel over the moon. “Yeah, yeah, I guess I am,” he lied, too tired to get into it. 

*

Svetlana had showed herself much later than Mickey'd imagined, his patience wearing thin as his usual spot on the stool didn't feel as right as it used to. He'd almost given up and gone home, but there she was, strutting in, different but the same, hair shorter, back straight, and intimidation still radiating off her, muttering Russian to herself as she gathered empty glasses from tables.

Mickey bit his knuckle to not say anything, or to laugh, because sitting here unnoticed was more entertaining, watching his hooker ex wife with whom he shared a baby work around, her bartending skills obvious. He'd known her in the worst possible way, her presence in his life a constant reminder, a nightmare that never slept, still coming back to haunt him. For so long, Mickey had felt resentful, hateful towards her, and everything that came of that day, even if she had been collateral damage to his father's intentions. At first, there was no other option than to hide his complete self destruction, his worlds collapsing inside than to retaliate at anything that played a part. At some point, he'd very slowly and gradually slipped away from holding onto the pain, a self defense mechanism – and started letting go. It came with acceptance, and forgiveness, and maturity, concepts Mickey didn't have a grasp on for long, that when he welcomed them, it was like the weight of the world off his shoulders. It didn't have to be that way, Mickey thought. He watched her make her way around, making snarky comments to customers, realising that the hard feelings he'd once felt were distant, out of touch. She'd played a part, but not the one to blame. Just like him, not the one to blame. He even found that they had common ground, fiestiness and fearlesness being two major ones, maybe even courage. Two hard asses who didn't put up with any shit, including each other's. If there wasn't place for love, there was place for mutual respect and understanding.

“No way.” The very familiar harsh Russian accent directed at him, dragging him back into reality, Svetlana's imposing hand on hips body in front of him, a smirk drawing itself on her lips.

“Yes way.”

* 

Svetlana had been less like Kev, full of questions but not bombarding him relentlessly with interrogations, and he felt grateful for the calmness of her words, the bitchiness edging on too hard sometimes. He'd finally gotten the chance to ask her the question that was the root of all this, “Where's my son?”

Kevin had dismissed her as soon as he heard why she needed to take a break, seeming way too pleased about Mickey and Svetlana going to check on the kids. They walked, Mickey lying that he didn't have a ride, making her mutter something in Russian that was probably not appreciation, to which Mickey had simply replied, “Didn't learn fucking angry jibberish in the can, if that's what you think.”

Mickey was confused when they turned up at Kev and Vee's house, Svetlana waving off his many questions until they were inside, and then he was watching Svetlana so gracefully tell the babysitter to leave, and she'd scurried away like a mouse into a hole. He saw Emma and Amy first, their ridiculously and painfully resembling faces staring up at him from a same cot, and he lightly smiled down at them. He lifted his head, and there he was – the one little man he'd spent all day looking for, tired and sleepy in his mother's arms as she cradled him. He looked bigger, older, more hair sprouting on his head, and his features a little more developped, but still the same, small kid he thought he'd seen the last of months ago. Mickey gulped some dry saliva, suddenly overwhelmed at the sight of him – the feeling in his heart swelling up, ready to engulf him. His eyes even prickled a bit when Svetlana edged closer towards him, swaying the kid in her arms, and Mickey had mindlessly extended his arms. 

And then he was gripping onto him, as gently as he could but still maybe with too much strength, the sudden urge to never let go falling down on him. Yev made a small noise, and Mickey smiled down at him, cooing and rocking him, placing a small kiss to his forehead. “Hey buddy.”

“He missed you.” 

Mickey looked up, his eyes wide and glassy, and he stuttered in disbelief. “He did?” 

Svetlana just nodded sincerely. 

“How d'you..” He trailed off.

“I read people,” she interrupted, “even small ones.” 

Mickey couldn't find the will to say anything, returning back to the now bright eyed being staring up at him, as if he was looking into his soul and picking it apart. And then he whispered, his mouth on Yev's warm and soft skin, words only he would hear, ones that would hopefully make their way through his body and stay there, so that he would always remember them. “I missed you too.”

It was almost crushing the amount of emotions that Mickey felt stirring inside him, a whirlwind of unsaid words and unspoken feelings whooshing round as he looked down at Yevgeny, his son, a part of him right there in his arms. He had been the hardest to overcome, the human form of all that happened, the coming together and the outcome. A creation built from pain, blood and violence, could never be anything other than destruction and sadness. But Mickey had never been so wrong. He'd never seen something so beautiful, or calm, or delicate before, and he felt himself choking on immense love, unconditional and irreversable, one he could never take back or give up. The love was already there, it was in Mickey's blood, in his veins, running through him – the same blood that pumped through his son's heart. An invisible link bonding them together, a connection deeper than oceans and higher than mountains. 

Svetlana had given them some time, not pressuring Mickey or making any moves, just letting him have his moment, as she distracted herself by getting a beer for him, and playing with the other babies in the room. Mickey's arms had eventually started aching, and he'd had to put him down, resting his head as gently as he could down on his bed, Yevgeny already asleep as he had been for a while.  
“Gonna tell me why you're crashing here then?” Mickey finally asked, uncapping his beer and downing it.

“Not crashing, living,” Svetlana rectified, “have just as much place here as other two. Maybe even more.”

Mickey's face scrunched up at the sly smirk on her face. “Please don't tell me you're banging one of them,” he rubbed a hand over his forehead.

“No,” she said, and Mickey visibly relaxed, “I bang both of them.”

* 

Food. Shit. Mickey had almost forgotten, and he'd found himself begging Svetlana to help him out, to which she'd given into, but coldly adding that he owed her. It took Mickey ages to walk back to where he'd left Mandy's jeep, letting out a pleased groan when he was finally seated and reversing out, dusk on the doorstep, reminding him to get to a store as fast as he could.

Luckily, speed wasn't lacking, and Mickey spent too long approaching stores that were shutting, telling him to come back tomorrow. He sped up and down the dark lanes, until he was gradually approaching the North Side. He saw the wave of expensive cars and painted buildings, clean pavements and realised, that his sister's car would fit right in. He pulled to a halt and jumped out, lightly jogging into a bright LED lighted supermarket, mentally cursing at just breathing North Side air, that even smelt like it had been detoxicated and sprayed with cleansing products. 

He gathered and throwed some products in, all too fancy and the endless choices making his head spin. He grabbed essentials, everything way more expensive than it should've been, but then again Mickey was grateful he didn't have to pay for oxygen. When the cart looked full enough for Mandy to not growl at him, he made his way to the counter, the absence of a queue casting a wave of relief over him.

The cashier looked bored and unimpressed, and Mickey didn't ponder why – his position behind a counter scanning products already giving him an answer. The store bell ringed behind, a new customer walking in, as the cashier made no attempts to go any faster, lazily dragging each item and pushing it to the side. When he finally got to the end of a pile, and was monotously announcing the price, Mickey was sweating. 

“Fuck, is it really that much?” 

The young boy's face managed to look even more expressionless at that point, clearly fed up, and eyeing Mickey increduously as he rumbled through the money in his hand, mentally cursing Svetlana for not being generous enough. He lay the bills on the counter messily as he delve into his pockets for lingering change, retreaving a few cents that clattered on the metal. 

The boy looked down passively at the unimpressive amount of money, shaking his head.

“All right, how bout I skip this,” he discarded some items, “and just keep this?” He motioned to the remaining items, hopeful in his bargain.

The cashier sighed loudly, rescanning and visibly not having any problems, waiting for the ticket to print, and letting his gaze linger too long on Mickey's inked knuckles when he took the ticket.

Finally he was out of there, wanting nothing more than to go home, unlocking his car.

“Hey.” 

Mickey rotated, squinting in the darkness to a tall silhouette approaching. 

“You forgot this.”

Mickey made out the item he'd left behind in the store, shaking his head and looking at the stranger, who'd now stepped into the light – man, tall, sculpted face and shiny hair, fitted clothes. “Nah man I didn't forget it.”

“You did, it's yours.” The man insisted, extending the item until it nearly touched Mickey.

“Uh, thanks,” Mickey said quietly, awkward and uneasy about the gesture. Strangers buying you stuff didn't sit well. He slowly stepped back, edging towards the car, “Well, I gotta go, but thanks.” 

“That your ride?” 

Mickey winced at the stranger speaking again. Mickey could fake politeness if he tried hard enough, so spun around. “Uh, yeah.”

“She's beautiful,” the man chuckled, and Mickey noted his use of the she pronoun. “What is she, 180? 360?”

“The fuck should I know man,” Mickey snorted, his knowledge about cars near to non existent. 

“Bet she's a 360. Got a 180 at home, bit different than this,” he confessed, nodding to himself in agreement.

“You, uh, do this a lot? Buy strangers crap at the store and then tell 'em about your prized possesions?” Mickey inquired, aware that his politeness was fading.

The man didn't take offense, instead chuckling, and looking up at him. “No, just the ones I find cute.”

Mickey's eyebrows shot up, and he actually laughed. “Cute? That the best you got?” 

“Well, I've got plenty more, maybe I could tell you the next time we see each other?” 

Mickey had a hard time believing this was happening. A North Side guy, trying to hit on him. It was comedic. “Nah man, I'm good.” 

“What, you got a boyfriend or something?” The guy joked.

It was a simple question, yes or no answer, but it had Mickey faltering and freezing. The question echoed, and just as expected – the uneasy feeling churned some more and Mickey was suddenly heavy on his feet. A boyfriend. The word seemed so silly now, and yet he'd been so scared to use it in the past. Scared to admit it was real, scared to label it, scared of offering someone that title – because doing so meant also offering them the chance to hurt you. And just as he'd feared, putting himself in that position, making yourself vulnerable, it had backfired, and everything he dreaded, all the risks he went over and over before giving himself up, devoting himself to one person, allowing himself that priviledge had him here today – alone, and hurt. 

It had been easier, in prison, to pretend. To pretend that missing him, falling asleep without him, not seeing his face, hearing his voice – it could all be blamed on external seperation, him inside, him outside, as much as they both longed for each other's presence. And he'd fooled himself into thinking that it could be okay, that they could work it out, because he couldn't ever picture himself going back, back to that afraid, cowardly boy he once was. Everything they'd gone through together, passing like a book being quickly flipped open, it was almost impossible to think that that word, that title, wouldn't always be defining one another. And yet, here he was, outside, free, and Ian Gallagher still wouldn't be falling asleep next to him tonight. No forced separation to blame it on. And Mickey choked a little on his words, finally letting himself say them, out loud, vocalizing the truth he'd been trying to deny for so long, too long.

“No,” he finally said, resolute and sure, “no I don't have a boyfriend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading as always, probably some Ian POV next chapter. Feel free to leave feedback!


	3. Foreshadowing

First, pink, not vibrant pink but cool, subtle pink, the same shade as the candyfloss you buy at funfairs, watching the edible fluff swirl round and round. After, orange, fading from the rose to a light coral, shifting to peach, then vibrantly bursting into a deep amber, as if holding the precious stone itself, sun rays beaming through it. All under a matter of seconds, as Ian watched mezmerized, flicking ashes from his cigarette off the roof, as the awakening sun painted the sky as if it were an artist, a fresh blank canvas every morning waiting to be used. Ian's body had gotten into the habit of synchronising itself with the sun, dawn acting as his own personal alarm clock, and he'd grab a cigarette, creep out the apartment and head up the steep and concrete stairs, the led him to the very last floor, the one that was out in the open, the fresh air around him and no walls or ceilings. He sat there now, on the edge, dangling his legs, tasting the new day oxygen, before it was completely dirtied and recycled, alternating it with smoke – his lungs were in a perpertuating state of confusion. It was quiet, not enough for silence to reign, but quieter than any other moment of the day, and Ian never knew just how much he appreciated it until he heard it. It was just him – in his most raw state – alone and shielded from others, absence of all outside influences, no expectations, no demands, no pressure, he could be whoever he wanted, or he could be no one – surrendering to the infinite above. 

A light wind picked up, flowing past his body on the edge, soliciting as always the same strand of hair, it waving in the air before dropping, hanging on his forehead. Something was different today.

Ian knew it when he'd had to give up his spot on the ledge, the sky too light now to only be his, doing the reversed route down the stairs. He'd known it when he'd gently made his way back into the apartment, treading with care along the floorboards over to the kitchen sink, his empty glass and prescription waiting for him, just like every morning. And just like every morning, Ian hesitated – thought it over, ran over the risks and possibilites, listened to the never ending battle of his said sane side telling him it was for his own good, and his said crazy side telling him to give them up, to roam free. It was funny, to be labeled as crazy, because truth be told, Ian couldn't summon an answer when he asked himself what being crazy even meant. He didn't think he was crazy – but the people with the degrees and the years of studying on their backs and diplomas, the people who apparently drew the line between normality and insanity would assure him that they were going to help him, do their best to fix him. Ian couldn't refuse, or accept, the voices of both sides getting louder and louder until they overlapped, not making sense anymore as he watched – and that's when he realized that he wasn't either of them and yet he was both. He was a passive bystander, who wanted to intervene but couldn't move, couldn't speak up – until he let others do the speaking for him, with no other choice but to listen to what the people on the outside said – and they'd said he needed medication, a remedy for those unwanted demons. He'd resented it at first, it felt like his whole mind was shut down but his heart kept on beating and he kept on breathing, skimming through the days as if eternity lied ahead, with only darkness in sight. It started getting easier and easier, and little by little he was stepping from behind the glass he was seeing life through, emotions coursing through his body like electric volts. The voices still came and went, more like whispers echoing, but he could drown them out now, he could control them. It felt like the day had gone by the time he filled the glass up with water and tilted his head back, one after one after one, his loose strand wavering with mouvement. He knew, then, as he stood and allowed the drugs to run through him, wobbling a little, that something was different. An unsettling feeling, the knowing of something that's coming, the same way an animal's instinct has it running before the storm has hit. 

“Yo.” 

Ian startled at the silence breaker, turning to see Jamie approaching, shuffling in his worn out slippers past him, eyes small and tired, and locking himself in the bathroom. Ian checked his watch. 7:40. He was still slightly shaken, needing a few more moments of stillness to let his brain catch up. 

Jamie shuffled back out in the meanwhile, making his way over to Ian and turning on the light, revealing his mussled hair and worn out expression. “You okay?” 

Ian swallowed, nodding before answering. “Yeah, yeah, just taking longer than usual,” he frowned slightly.

Jamie was up to date and informed, as the doctor had precisely repeated over and over again, that whoever lived with Ian must be up to date and attentive to Ian's behaviour, must be effective and willing. Ian had quickly run things over with him at first, the rest he'd just gotten to know by observation. He flicked the switch on the coffee machine, the steam brewing out. “Need to sit down or something?”

“No,” Ian refused, “it'll pass.” 

Jamie just eyed him curiously and worriedly, as if searching to see whether Ian's denial was actually trustworthy. He raised the now ready coffee pot in Ian's direction. “Coffee?” 

Ian shook his head, glancing at his watch. 7:51. “Can't, gotta go.” 

Ian scurried past him and into his bedroom, quickly changing from his vest into his uniform, patting it and straightening it over, looking himself down in the mirror in his all blue outfit. He was making his way out, time ticking, as Jamie did the complete opposite – instead, just lazily moving round the kitchen, no rush on his hands. He caught Ian as he was halfway through the door.

“Hey, take this at least.” He threw him a Snickers bar, flying through the air until Ian's stretched hand caught it. “Can't save lives on an empty stomach,” he added.

“They should make that their new ad campaign,” Ian joked back, shutting the door behind him.

* 

Ian was in the van before he'd had time to even check his locker, the whole place in commotion as soon as he'd walked in enough for him to discard any other actions or thoughts that didn't involve the job. 

“Gallagher, we got a call, let's go!” Rita shouted, and Ian was immediately sprinting and leaping into the van, settling on the small bench in the back, while he waited alert and patiently for Rita to elaborate.

“Shooting,” she affirmed firmly, “down on Wes Street. Caller said number of victims was unknown but that two were down.”

Ian sat up straight at the information, breathing in and steadying himself to deal with the accident in the best possible way. He was still getting used to it, the processing of the details, sometimes horrific, like today. Then again, he didn't think he'd ever get used to it.

“Police?” Ian inquired.

“On their way.”

Ian nodded, taking in the situation, preparing himself for what he was about to deal with. His heart rate was pulsing, adrenaline and anxiety shooting through him like a firework. The tension in the air was high, nobody speaking, crucially important that their mental state was stable and calm. Him and Woody and Jude spared each other a glance, agreeing with a look that they were on board and a team. Ian blinked harshly, focusing on the job at hand, desperately trying to maintain it, even though it felt like he was slowly slipping. He didn't have time to think of anything else before the vehicule came to a halt, all the people shaken from the harsh stop. He didn't have time to think of that either, before Rita was kicking open the van doors and they were jumping out, rapidity in every action. Everyone dispersed, assessing the situation, the long street ahead, the sirens, the terrified bystanders, the blood, the victims, everything having to be noticed and taken into account. The pool of red that came into view had Ian immediatey by it, the adrenaline too high to think about it, and he was soon next to a body on the ground, crying and screaming in pain. It took no more than two seconds to see the source of the liquid, a dark red patch leaking through the victim's jeans, the blood growing thicker and darker on the fabric.

Ian was on the body, checking pulse and heartbeat, examining as best as he could for any further damage, a small bit of relief waving over him when the leg was the only visible wound.

“I'm Ian, and I'm here to help. Can you tell me your name?” Ian asked carefully and clearly, holding the victim's head in his hand. The man's face scrunched shut in agony, his hand flying out to grip his leaking leg, and Ian got there first, applying a thick towel and pressing it in.

“Max,” he let out in a long groan, eyes clenched shut.

“Okay Max, you're gonna be fine, just hang on,” he reassured him, doing his best to show an encouraging smile. 

Police sirens were wailing in the background, mixed with other sirens, and Ian dared dart a glance around – the caller had missed three other victims, who were all being tended to by arriving ambulances. Ian's attention was quickly drawn back to Max who was wheezing, his face growing paler by the second, eyes fluttering. Ian knew he was losing consciousness in front of him –  
and then Jude and Woody were beside him with a stretcher, laying it on the floor for him. Ian held his arms gently as another took care of dealing with the rest of his body, and through the cries he was on the bed and being raised and ran into the van. Ian immediately attached an oxygen mask to his face, seeing Max's eyes widen at the sudden aid. The van door slammed shut, as Ian stayed close to him, his eyes focused on his patient.

“Max, stay with me. Don't let the pain take over. You're here, you're fine.” 

*

“Quite a day, huh?” Woody managed to chuckle in exasperation.

Ian nodded breathlessly, still not fully back from the high of nerves. He ran his hands through his hair in relief, fatigue, stress, the same strand still falling forwad and flopping. Ian had gotten news and Max hadn't lost enough blood for him not to recover, and his heart had immediately sized down from where it had felt too big for his ribcage. His breathing was still irregular, and his vision seemed blurry but maybe that was just an illusion. 

“Wanna go get drinks?” Jude offered.

“I could definitely use a drink,” Ian accepted.

They found themselves, him Jude and Woody in a bar on 5th avenue, cornered in a booth at the end of the room, purple shades from the mysterious vibe it had going on. Ian had ordered a fanta but the the bartender had mixed up and given him orange juice but he hadn't cared enough to rectify. 

“That was some scary shit today, huh?” 

“I thought he wasn't gonna make it,” Ian admitted thoughtfully, almost as if he wasn't saying it to anyone.

“But he will,” Jude said.

“Won't always be like that,” Ian said. “There's gonna come a time when someone is gonna fucking die on us.” 

The weight of Ian's words hung heavy in the air, silence speaking a thousand words, and it lasted a while until Woody made a comment Ian didn't pay attention to, but it had Jude laughing. He was there one minute, gone the next – as if he'd floated into his mind, and couldn't hear anything else. The feeling was still there, the one that made him feel on edge, as if he were standing on a tight rope, but his balance was being threated by something he couldn't identify. He could almost hear the grumbling of a thunder that wasn't there, the storm approaching – and if Ian's instinct were right, he should be running. He was shaken back down by Woody asking if he could mix his drink with Ian's, complaining about how Jack Daniels alone wasn't a good taste, and Ian had just nodded mindlessly. It felt like he was behind the glass window again, but not the same one, thinner. Ian wondered painfully if everyone experienced this, if it was a normal people thing, or if his mind was playing tricks on him again, hard to tell. 

It was safe to say his coworkers weren't in their right state of mind, staggering out later with Ian behind, watching as two stumbling bodies couldn't hold each other up right, and he chuckled at the sight. The door to the outside swung open, the night air feeling like he was coming up from under water. He laughed when Woody nearly hit a lamp post, and Jude's laugh was so intense Ian thought the expression “dying of laughter” might come to life before his eyes. And he was on his way to help, as much as watching his drunk friends fall would have been satisfying, he was saving himself the bother of helping them off the ground. He waltzed over, ready to steady Woody as he clung to the lamp post, but never got around to it.

Then without warning, Ian was being pushed off the edge of the tight rope, at the same time as the storm, but it was too late, his instinct had been too late.  
Mickey Milkovich stumbled right into Ian's path, until they were face to face. And that's all Ian could see. It was as if he had a camera and was taking a photo, the focus on one part, the rest blurry. His face before him, almost like a mirage, an illusion, and Ian had to step back and shake himself except he couldn't move. Ian hadn't even noticed but he was no longer breathing, his inhale stuck in his lungs and not circulating. He was freefalling, off of the ledge, off the tightrope, he was getting struck by lightning all at once. Mickey was staring at him too, seeming to be deployed of his senses too, his indigo eyes wide and impossible, lips slightly parted. Ian had struggle believing they hadn't frozen time around them, all eternity passing by in that moment.

“Mickey, you coming?” A voice called out, and then Ian was gasping for air.

Mickey didn't move for a while, never tearing his gaze away, before quickly turning round and joining the body sticking out of the limo, waiting for him. Ian watched, his eyes stuck to it, as Mickey spared him one last glance when the black steel door slammed shut and it was whizzing off down the street, leaving Ian feeling like the walls in his mind had collapsed on top of each other, crumbling the foundations he'd spent so long building, just like that, into dust.

And then Woody was staggering towards him. “Who the fuck was that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, heavy chapter as I said, rereading it now I know I could've done better, but there we go. Also if you have any unanswered questions about characters or such, they will be explained later.  
> As for my next update it could be a while, so just hang on. Thank you sooo much for reading!


	4. Two Sides Of The Same Coin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an update? from me? no way. sorry for it being so late. but it's here now, and it's long. and eventful. so i hope that makes up for it. :-)

_Mickey had felt it even before he'd properly awoken. The bed was no longer evenly weighed on both sides and he was no longer basking in the natural warmth wafting from another naked body under the sheets. When he opened his eyes to find nobody sprawled out beside him and no bed of ginger hair resting on the pillow, he was already stumbling out of the bed – not without muttering a few curse words here and there first. He didn't even have to think, he just darted through the obscure house. This wasn't the first time. And knowing that didn't do much to ease him, either. He jerked open the front door with more force than was probably comfortable for someone who was still stuck between the world of consciousness and the world of dreams._

_The familiar silhouette of a crouched Ian sitting on the steps of the porch had him come through fully to reality and he let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Ian didn't startle or move at Mickey's presence, as he carefully got to his level and slouched down next to him. Mickey studied the redhead, taking in his tired and heavy eyelids around his very much open and bright eyes._

_“Hey,” Mickey whispered, “y'all right? What are you doing?”_

_Ian tilted his head slightly to look at Mickey in the eyes. Mickey felt a tug on his heart. He should do something.Mickey needed to do something._

_“Couldn't sleep.”_

_Mickey sighed. “Couldn't or wouldn't?”_

_Mickey knew Ian thought he was asleep, every night when he would hear him fidgeting and sitting up in the bed and sighing and chain smoking and carefully removing himself from the bed altogether. Mickey wasn't asleep, though – how could he be._

_“M'not tired, Mick,” Ian mumbled, careful to keep his lips sealed as to not let the cigarette he wasn't smoking fall out._

_Mickey stared at him, before swiftly retrieving the cigarette that had been teasing him since he sat down and putting it in his own mouth. He blindly felt around for a lighter, and quickly found one. Whether Ian had brought it out here with the intention of smoking or if it had been dropped there weeks ago by any one of the other regular smokers of the household wasn't a question that passed through Mickey's mind._

_The auburn orange fired up at the end of the stick, and Mickey didn't miss the way Ian's eyes rested on the burning tip or the way he followed the smoke propulsing itself and disappearing into the dark night. Mickey took a few inhales before offering it to Ian._

_“Been trynna quit,” Ian stated, eyeing Mickey with a hard eye. “You know that.”_

_Mickey hummed. “I also know that you finished my packet yesterday,” he said knowingly, handing Ian the cigarette again, “and that there's always tomorrow.”_

_Ian held his gaze, challenging Mickey's daring one while he seemed to consider but didn't dwell on it too long before he was sending the course of fire down into his lungs. Ian's entire body relaxed, as it released whatever it was holding onto into the smoke floating above them._

_“Can't believe you cleaned all that shit up,” Mickey said, a light chuckle to his words as he stared down at the now semi clean yard. It was almost unrecognizable, without the crushed beer cans and pieces of ancient motorcycles long since dead and dismantled furniture seathing themselves into the soil._

_Ian chuckled and knocked his elbow against Mickey's.“Yeah, me neither.”_

_Mickey wore a dull and faint smile as he turned to look at Ian. The moon hung directly above them, full and complete and shining as if its light wasn't merely a reflection of the sun. It cast white light in stripes down on them and it was hard to believe at that moment that it didn't circle the Earth just to bear its presence on them and them only, on the street of their home in South Side Chicago. Its beam travelled down and painted itself across Ian, creating a Ying and Yang on his face. The illuminated side was the one Mickey could directly see from his angle. He noticed the strand of hair that had recently found its place, dangling on Ian's forehead. It flopped and sometimes Ian would brush it back, but most of the time it didn't listen. It was different. It was fairly insignificant in the grand scheme of things – Ian's hair was long and untamed, it was bound to rebel at some point - and yet this strand seemed to hold heavier bearings than just Ian needing a haircut. It went with Ian – because Ian was different, too. Mickey knew it and he'd known it for a while. But it remained Ian, his Ian, the one he'd fought so long to stay away from, was now there beside him in the middle of the night. Even if somewhere, inside, he could hear the alarm sirens, the distant grumble of panic slowly creeping up on him, he could surpress it for now. He could surpress and ignore it if it meant just a bit longer, sitting next to each other with their knees bumping and their fingers dancing inches away from each other. He could tune out the knowing thoughts of what would soon happen if it meant passing the cigarette back and forth, hearts still getting a thrill from the ghosts of each other's breaths on it even after all this time, until the moment when it was no longer enough and their lips found each other in the comfort of the the fading moon. Mickey could push it away for it a bit longer, and he did._

_Until he couldn't anymore._

**

The front yard wasn't as clear as it had been that night – the same old junk that rotted there before had started gathering again, hidden in the tall grass. Things didn't last – whether it was a sense of tidyness at the Milkovich house or having a partner to wake up to every morning – it didn't matter. Time was nothing more than a thief who stole whatever it wanted. There was no way to anticipate it, or prevent it, or stop it. It came as fast as it left, one precious thing at a time. Things didn't last.

Mickey pulled on his cigarette, three quarters of it already burned out. He was about to pull again until it was snatched out of his grasp and fitted between his sister's lips, who was now standing beside him, her startling appearance earning herself some four letter words. Her mouth merely quirked in amusement, the glaring from her brother seemingly uneffective.

“I remember Ian trying to clean all this shit the day I left,” her voice softened the memory replaying in her mind.

“Kinda backfired the week after when he filled it with other random stolen shit,” Mickey added. His sister just looked at him, the question evident on her face. “Suitcase got delivered here by accident, gave him an idea, so he went and brought home enough of them to fill the fucking house to the top.Thought we could use it, maybe sell it,” he explained vaguely, replaying the images of a house overflowing with clutter.

“Jesus,” she breathed. She looked at Mickey with empathy in her eyes. “Sorry I wasn't here to help.”

“Nothing you could've done.”

Silence settled. She didn't reply, and Mickey didn't say anything more. It was the truth. Mandy turned to look at him, he could tell she wanted to speak, the words bumbling on her lips. She soon lost track of it when a vibration travelled to their ears from inside, the front door wide open for them to hear it. A phone. Mandy understood that Mickey wasn't going to do anything about it anytime soon, so she went to take care of it.

“It's your phone!” She shouted, probably louder than necessary – she was only a few steps away. “Some unidentified number!”

Mickey rubbed a hand over his face before firing back, “Don't fucking answer it!” also louder than necessary. But he felt that the stamina and power was needed to make a point if he knew his sister well enough. And he did, because she wandered out seconds later with the phone clasped to her ear, a taunting smirk on her mouth.

“Fuck- Mandy.” Mickey harshly muttered and she dismissed him by a finger to her lips. Mickey could hear the faint sound of a voice coming through the other end of the line, and by Mandy's expression, he was going to sincerely regret letting her pick up.

“Yeah, he's uh-” She spoke, turning to see his flustered and worked up face. He raised his eyebrows as she continued, “he's right here. I'll pass you to him. Nice talking.”

She handed him the phone with a grin and Mickey had to try very hard to not shove her down the porch. He mouthed something that she caught only partially – but it wasn't hard to work out – him doing something to her, that something rhyming with grill. She waited around to make sure he actually answered, and then had the decency to disappear into the house. Or at least made it seem like she was decent, as him knowing her she was probably hiding behind the door listening anyway.

Mickey took a breath and lifted it to his ear, but didn't say anything.

“Good day to you,” the chipper voice came through anyway. Mickey recognized it. “I hope the cute guy I met last night is the one breathing and I didn't accidentally intercept an evil spirit.”

Mickey scoffed. “Aren't they the same thing?”

The man let out a short laugh. “Well, evil spirits aren't my usual type, but I guess I could make an exception,” he said, “but who knows, maybe getting possessed will become a new kink.”

Mickey should've hung up. This guy was too bubbly and upbeat and straightforward and had downright corny flirting techniques and completely everything Mickey stirred away from. But he didn't, and what he replied left his mouth before he checked it. “Hope you gotta' priest around then.”

“Always,” the man replied. Mickey could almost feel the wink shimmer through the phone. He didn't reply. “Do I get a name? I saved your number under “cute guy from the store,” and as fitting as it is I would rather not refer to you as that all the time.”

“You gotta fucking stop with the cute, man. The next thing you'll be putting flowers crowns on me and taking me to fucking tea parties.”

“D'you wanna go to a tea party? I had other plans in mind but I can arrange that instead.”

Mickey just scoffed. This was decidely a bizarre situation and definitely a new one.Mickey found himself at a loss on how to act. He didn't know how he felt about conversing with a stranger over the phone. A stranger from the fucking North Side. A stranger who approached other strangers and asked for their numbers. A stranger who called the other stranger the next day and continued with the flirting. A stranger who was seemingly set on asking the other out. Except the other didn't know how to reply to that.

“I uh-, I gotta go,” was the first answer that came to mind. Mickey's body was tensing and he had to end the phone call.

The man faltered slightly on the other line but quickly recovered. “Okay. I like hard to get anyway. Tell me your name?”

“Fucking Mickey,” he breathed irritably.

“I'm gonna assume Fucking's not your first name and Mickey's not your second. I'm Brian, by the way.”

“See ya, Brian.”

He hung up before Brian could answer. He ran his hand over his face and fumbled for a cigarette. He slouched down onto the steps and lit up. Deja vu coursed through him like an electricity volt. Those nights here. On these steps. Inhaling and exhaling. An empty space that was once occupied. “Fuck,” Mickey muttered.

It crept up on him, as it always did. Tiptoed its way around him, floated in the air he breathed, painted itself in the corners of his vision. The memories of a time that once was. It was merely three months ago and yet it felt like years, displayed and rolled out before him. Ian had never been so distant. Distance stretched out between the two of them to a point where Mickey felt it had all been a dream. A dream that was over, no matter how many times he tried to fall back asleep and find it again.

“Mick?”

Mickey shook himself and hummed.

“All right there?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Mickey didn't answer.

“Phone call didn't go too well? Can't say I'm surprised, a fucking North Side accent on the phone can't be a pleasurable experience.” She lightly laughed and placed herself beside him. He was huddled forward on the top step, smoke seaping from his nostrils like flares. “What did he want?”

Mickey gnawed at his bottom lip. “Me.”

Mandy's eyebrows raised. “You? Wait, you mean like, “I want to date you you”?”

“Yes, fuck, don't say it like that.”

“Sorry I'm just fucking surprised. When, how?”

“Last night.”

“You mean,” Mandy started, reassessing the situation, “that in the time you spent buying some food you got hit on?” She asked, even though the answer had already been answered. “In the North Side? By a North Side guy?” She shifted to face him even more.

“Jesus, yes, d'you have to fucking say it all like that?”

“Sorry, again, I'm surprised. And you gave him your number?”

Mickey fidgeted, he felt pressured under her scrutinizing gaze and her interrogation. “Yeah I gave him my fucking number. Why wouldn't I? Ain't like I'm betraying a boyfriend or shit by doing that.”

Mandy's expression softened. “I didn't mean it like that, Mick.” She tentatively reached out for his arm, and despite the momentary flinch, he allowed it. “I just meant that,” she seemed to choose her words carefully, “Ian was the only guy I ever knew you with. It's just new, seeing you date people.”

Mickey didn't say anything for a beat. “I ain't dating anyone.”

“I know. But your options are open. And that's good. It's great, even.”

Mickey turned his head to face his sister, her wide and reassuring eyes boring into him. Her hand still clasped his shoulder. This was new, too. They were closer now than ever before. When they were growing up, they found support in each other. They would hug and wipe each other's tears away whilst hiding behind the couch. Life beat that out of them – life being their dad. It didn't take long for everything they'd seen to settle inside them, in their minds, in their skin, in their dreams, terrors tucking themselves away in both of them. It changed, after that. They became numb, empty, each others affection wasn't enough anymore. So they turned away from one another and looked elsewhere; anywhere, for comfort.

For Mickey, it played on his ability to escape. Leave the world he lived in behind and step into another, a distorted version of reality, one where pain didn't hurt like it did on his side. He found his escapes at the bottom of bottles or rolled up in paper. When evasion didn't satisfy him, he opted for fire arms. Destruction. Losing himself in the clock of the gun, the smell of powder, the groundbreaking sounds. Each pull of the trigger was another sort of high. But it wasn't fake, it was real. The bullets coursing through the air on his demand – giving him power, giving him control – was like a opening a scar and letting its demons run wild.

On her side, Mandy searched for her comfort in other people. Men. The need to be wanted. The need to be desired. She thrived most when she had them wrapped around her finger, on their toes. She teased them, played them, built up their thirst. And then she would deliver. Mandy strived off their approval, off their attention, off their eyes on her. Feeling important, even if it was just one night. She hid her demons well – covered them up with the scent of cheap perfume and irresistible charm.

They still wore those habits; under their sleeves. They would never die. They were a part of who they were, just as much as each scar and tear stained cheek was a part of who they were. But that didnt mean they were them. Time was funny like that. It pulled apart and it sowed back together and it ripped to shreds and carefully binded again. They were here now, slowly finding each other again after so long of looking away. And it felt right. Mickey was gaining something he'd lost.

“You think I should?” He asked. He wanted her advice. He'd spent too long lone wolfing it. He could accept someone's help and input, even if it was just this once. Mandy just shrugged, a dull smile on her face. “You serious? The one time I ask for advice and that's all you're gonna give me?”

“Do it,” she said. Mandy saw her brother breathe in at her words. “Worst that could happen? Guy's a prick. He's North Side, so that's actually a pretty fucking big possibility. But even that's not all bad, cause you get free food.” Mickey smiled. “You're not marrying him. You're not betraying anybody either, like you said. You got nothing to lose.”

**

Mickey remembered exactly why he didn't take advice now. Especially his sister's advice. It led him to luxury bars on the North Side, waiting for a guy from the North Side. Mickey lied. This was a betrayal. Not to a person, but to his home – it was always South against North, and now he was fraternizing with the enemy. Not to mention Mickey felt like a black sheep with mud-trudged hooves admist ivory-coated sheep with gold hooves. He felt the weight of every eye on him, as he sat on the stool, back to the booths full of men in suits and women in pearl necklaces – him in a simple tank and jeans. This is what it's like on the other side, he thought.

Mickey regretted it. He regretted it as he replayed the overly joyful voice that came through the phone when he'd called back and agreed to meeting him – as politely as any Milkovich could. His heart was bumping against his ribcage and he felt weak, like every person in the room was more powerful. He could knock them out, that wasn't the problem. Money made them powerful. They bathed in it and he reeked in the absence of it. Meeting someone from this world would never work.

“Good evening, Mickey.”

Mickey turned to face, who he only assumed was Brian. He realised that he didn't remember him at all – his memory had drastically changed the image of the man standing before him. Under the auburn oval lampshade, he looked mature, older than Mickey, by how much, hard to tell. His face wore years of wealth and luxury and wisdom, and his dusty brown hair on his head shined from great care. He wasn't unpleasant to look at that, Mickey noted. He wore a buttoned down shirt and plaited trousers. Mickey fidgeted. Again, he didn't know he felt about this man. Any other time, he would've mentally pictured spitting on his spotless and shining shoes, but now, he just stared. Mickey couldn't help but notice how Brian blended in, like a cameleon on a branch, subtle and silent predator, and Mickey was a helpless prey, oblivious and exposed, being watched from every corner. It was unsettling.

Meanwhile, Brian hadn't waited for a greeting in return as he sat himself on a stool beside him and tapped the counter for a waiter. Brian had originally planned a restaurant, and Mickey had immediately refused, the image of the two of them opposite each other at a candle lit dinner had his palms sweating and stomach churning in the worst way. So they settled on a bar that Mickey let Brian choose (“ but nothing too fucking posh”), situated on the line between the South and the North (“so we're both in our element”) The barrier. Apparently, Brian had made sure it carried more North than South.

“Already drinking I see?”

“Sorry man. Got thirsty.”

Brian ordered a scotch on the rocks, typically, and faced Mickey. The latter was internally shaking himself. Is this a date? No it's not a date. It's drinks. Nothing else. He thinks it's a date. I've never been on a date. I was supposed to go on a date but-

Mickeys thoughts were cut off by Brian's impressive ability to converse. Even to someone as uninviting as Mickey. “So, what do you do?”

“Is this the part where we talk about our careers and our jobs and taxes and complain about the rise and fall of the economy?”

Brian shook his head, amused. “God no."

"Good, cause it would be a one sided conversation."

"I talk about that every day. Just tell me about yourself.”

Mickey squirmed. Anything from his life up until now was the wrong thing to just blurt out. But he did it anyway, cause he was Mickey.

“I just got out of prison.”

Mickey waited suspiciously before facing Brian. He expected disgust, judgment, and maybe the air from someone running away out the door, but got none of those. Just curious, raised eyebrows, above interested eyes. “Well, I wasn't expecting that.”

“Yes you fucking were. You can't help it – it's programmed in your brain to expect that from someone with curse words on their knuckles.”

Brian wasn't offended. “What?” He reached over and grabbed Mickey's wrist. The action had Mickey pulling away bruskly; sensitive at the sudden contact. When Brian just stared at him apologetically, Mickey held his arm out and fisted his hand so his knuckles were at the other's mans eye level. Eye to fist. Brian looked fascinated and dazzled by the ink. No judgment. “You use that to scare people off?”

“If I need to,” Mickey admitted, small smirk on his lips.

“Why were you in prison?”

“Long story.”

“We have time.”

“I don't have patience.”

“Ah, you willingly gave up another thing about yourself.”

Mickey chuckled. “All right. Your turn.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything, man. Why the fuck your shoes are so shiny.”

“I get them polished daily. I hate dirty shoes.”

“Jesus, don't look at mine then. Tell me about how your bath is made of gold and how someone feeds you dinner off a silver platter.”

Brian laughed. “I can feed myself. I have money but I'm not an infant.”

“Fucking hell. Here's the jackpot; why are you filthy rich?”

Brian adjusted himself. He cleared his throat and leveled Mickey's gaze. “I own a company. I'm my own CEO.”

“Ah. That just a fancy word for you big guys calling the shots?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“You're the face to the bastards who get richer off us being poor, huh.”

“I wouldn't put it so harshly. I doubt what I do has any impact on you,” Brian said. He thought it over. “Well not directly, anyway.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey shook his head in amusement and disbelief. This was comedic, as he'd come to realize was everything in Brian's presence. Him, embodiment of the underpriviledged, uncensored, dirty, gritty, poor side of the world. Brian, embodiment of the luxurious, rich, clean and polished, golden side of the world. Two polar opposites sitting beside each other. Two worlds colliding.Two sides of the same coin.

“You want me to show you?”

“Show me what?”

“My work. Where I murder the poor and use their blood to wash my clothes.”

“Hey. S'only funny when it's the poor talking shit of the poor.”

“My bad. I'm not the one who washes my clothes anyway.”

Mickey laughed. "All right. Where's your limo?” Mickey asked, voice drenched in sarcasm.

“It's out front. Follow me.”

Of fucking course it was.

Mickey sat bewildered for a second as Brian tossed bills onto the counter and darted outside, Mickey trailing behind. He pushed open the rotating doors and the dark night air hit him like a blow to the face. A soft blow. He hadn't realised how hot he'd been. It was surreal, the whole evening was. How could it be real? Mickey, just out of prison, following a guy who owned a limo and was now sitting inside the five foot long vehicule. Black steel. Long and sleek. Unreal. Brian sat inside, in the back compartment, and it took Mickey no longer than two seconds to understand that of course, he had a personal driver. The seats were leather and dimly lit by a light above. Brian looked joyful (as he always did.)

Mickey ran his hands over his face before he started walking towards it. He looked up the street.

Time froze.

Brian wasn't there.

Neither was the limo.

Everything was a blur. Except for the person staring back at him. Ian. It can't be. Unreal. Surreal.

Mickey faintly head the sound of Brian's voice behind him as he struggled to remember who he was, where he was. Ian was staring at him too. Eternity between their gazes. Heartbeats thumping away. Brian shouted again and Mickey took the remaining steps into the limo. He turned at the last minute, almost expecting there to be nothing. An illusion. The effect of a drink and the weirdness of it all. But Ian was still there.

The door swung shut and Mickey fell back against the seat from the speed of the limo shooting off down the street. He was dizzy. He barely head the distorted delight in Brian's voice next to him.

“Who in hell was that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wish i could say expect an update soon, but i don't trust myself to do that; i'll try. i hope you like this chapter, i know it's different. i hope you don't find anybody OOC. i know i'm hard to read sometimes. but thank you so much for your patience and for reading! don't forget to let me know how you feel!


	5. Fight Or Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yet another filler chapter, don't kill meeee

“Is here okay?”

Mickey peered out the window as they rolled up on a curb. The street was drenched in darkness and shadows, save for the few flickering lamp posts, and flashing neon 24-hour food joint signs. The black tint on the window made it all appear obscurer than it really was. Mickey thought that this shade seemed more fitting, anyway. “Here's fine.”

Brian wearily looked around from inside the safety of his limo, but made no comments – at least not out loud. His facial expression wavered, and it made it hard for Mickey to read. He frowned slightly as he scanned his entourage, but didn't shy away or put his nose up. It resembled the one he wore after Mickey's revelation about being in prison. Unexpected and not totally identifiable. Somewhere between fascination and mere observation – like he was infinitely curious and yet unaffected. If judgment was there, it didn't show. Mickey didn't fool himself though – if the guy worked in the business world it wouldn't be a shocker if he'd mastered how to fit into any given mask at any given time. Still, it startled Mickey, threw him off a bit. He didn't allow it to go any further than that – it would lead to expectations. And Mickey knew better than to have expectations from others.

“Raincheck for the workplace then,” Brian stated, even though it sounded like a question. After Mickey had gotten in the car, it had taken no more than two minutes for his sweaty palms and fidgeting and obvious distraction for Brian to suggest calling it a night. Mickey had been more than grateful, he needed to get out and get home before he punched the headrest and that didn't seem like an appropriate thing to do on a first date. Non-date, rather. “But to be rescheduled,” he prompted.

Mickey tried a weak smile and pushed open the door onto the street. The air met him instantly and he let out a little gasp. “Thanks.” He heaved himself out onto the street, - his clothes felt like they were soaked and adding extra weight to him. “I'm- uh, I'm gonna go,” he shuffled back a bit, edging away. Standing around wasn't helping: he needed to move.

Brian looked him over, a flash of concern in his eyes. Mickey didn't dwell on it too long as he sent one last measly half glance his way and went to shut the door when Brian spoke. “Hey?”

Mickey's eyes fluttered closed and he breathed for a moment before craning his neck back into Brian's vision. His eyebrows replaced speech, asking the question by the way they expectantly rose. What?

“I'll see you soon,” he said. Mickey took this is as unnecessary small talk – more time spent hanging around, the fidgetier he was getting. He could feel his heart beating in his ears. It wasn't Brian's fault technically, Mickey knew that, but it was hard to not let what was going on inside blur and mix with his surroundings. “If you need anything, call me.”

This earned him a snort. “I can take care of myself,” he answered, a little edge to it.

“I don't doubt that,” Brian answered earnestly, “but I'd prefer to tell you anyway.”

Mickey blinked a few times. The concern in Brian's voice and face were transparent and it did nothing but add to his growing uneasiness. He hated how fragile he must've appeared, right then. It almost became an urge to prove him wrong – to remind him that he didn't know who he was talking to, who Mickey was and what he could do. Prove to him that he wasn't weak, that he didn't need looking out for, especially from someone who was reclined in a leather seat, wedged in a heated limo. His heart beat faster, until he felt his pulse pumping in his throat. He merely felt the tingle in his knuckles, the slow rise of his chest.

A breeze picked up around him. Light, barely noticeable, but it seemed to ground him. The air floated around him and his breathing slowed, if only a little. His fists released by his side, and he swallowed, overwhelmed by something he didn't have time to think of.

“I'll make sure to look twice before crossin' the street. That good for you?” Was what came out in the end. Mickey found comfort knowing that that was all Brian would ever hear, despite the voices in his head.

“All I needed to hear,” Brian replied, an uncertain smile tugging at his lips. “Have a good night, Mickey.”

**

The walk home stretched out until it appeared to never end. Mickey had vaguely asked to be dropped somewhere in town, and had mumbled that he'd find his way back. He knew briefly where he was – at this point, he knew the entire SouthSide like the back of his hand – as he passed an alley he somewhat remembered going down, to round up a deal or to settle some business. Maybe he'd even fucked someone down there at some point, if it was close enough to a bar, which it was. His feet tredged heavy on the pavement. He was heavy. Every movement felt like it was too much.

He passed the Alibi, and made out through the unfocused windows the silhouettes of people – most likely the same ones who were there the day before, and the week before, and the year before – downing as much as they could until they drifted off into their own reality. Find that state of numbness, of pain, of joy. Most drank to hide from their emotions, even though once the liquid took effect it actually broke the chains and let the emotions run wild. Mickey could almost feel the vivid burn in his throat, the heat as it disperses through your blood, the few minutes of knowing what's coming, surrendering to its power, letting it take you over. He shut his eyes and allowed himself to imagine that state, wavering on the sidewalk.

His body ached for him to do it, to forget about the person who was making him do this anyway. He didn't bother lying to himself – he knew that the main reason for the trembling need to drink was seeing Ian. He fucking hated it, how Ian still, had control over him. Without even knowing it.

Mickey swiped a hand over his face and pressed on, stepping further away from the red door.

**

The lights were on at home, filtering through the broken windows. Mickey finally made it inside, shrugging off his coat and heading straight for his bedroom. He kicked off his shoes, and quickly headed into the kitchen and swung open the fridge door. He eyed the five beer cans and quickly took them. He'd refrained from going to the Alibi, mostly because the thought of being alone was a lot more appealing – not because he'd decided against the alcohol. He'd given up on resisting, despite there not having been much effort to begin with.

He held them to his chest and intended to collapse in his bed, drink, pass out and wake up again some other time. His plan was cut short before it was even in motion.

“Hey!” Mandy emerged from her bedroom, bare face and pyjamas (boxer shorts and a vest). It was grounding to see her look so familiar, like this at night. During the day she seemed different. “When d'you get home?”

“Just now,” he grumbled.

Her eyes flickered to the cans piled in his arms, but she didn't seem surprised. “What you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like?” He snipped.

“Looks like you're about to get shit faced and you didn't invite me,” she said, her lips curling into a smile that Mickey reciprocrated.

His plan didn't go exactly as he'd expected – for one, he was on the sofa and not in his bed, and for two, he had company – but it wasn't the worst thing in the world. They were both on their second can, getting more relaxed with each sip and spreading out more. Mandy sat across from him on a small old recliner, legs dangling off the side, as Mickey louged on a 3-people couch. The silence was only perturbed by gulps and the sounds of beer being opened, but it was comfortable, nice.

“So.”

Mickey had known that talking was inevitable, but he still groaned slightly at the thought of actually doing it. The act of talking was, believe it or not, still slightly unfamiliar to Mickey. It wasn't that he didn't ever speak, of course he did. But the deeper definition of it – the one where the talking means something, comes from somewhere within – was still new. Ian had been the instigator of it, – like a lot of other things - prodding at Mickey even without trying, and it was like learning a new language. Mandy had always been a little bit better at opening up and voicing her feelings, but not quite there yet. They were both working on it.

Mickey hummed as way of reply. “Date really that bad, huh?”

Mickey swallowed what was in his mouth. He thought it over. “Nah,” he said, and it was the truth. “That was ok.”

Mandy nodded. “He nice? The guy?”

“Talks a bunch of words I don't get and rides around in a fuckin' limo, but yeah, he's nice.”

“Takes a fucking while to get used to,” Mandy laughed around her gulp, “the money, the nice stuff. Actually seeing people who don't live like shit.”

Mickey's face let his confusion known. Mandy offered him a knowing smile.

“The guys I meet at my job,” she elaborated, “most of them are loaded. Got so much money they can't even be fucking bothered to find a girl, they gotta pay for that too,” she laughed. “Joke's on them. Got me my jeep.”

Despite the light tone Mandy was using, his instincts kicked in. All he had to do was picture sleezy men with shit tons of money thinking they could buy his sister, for his fingers to twitch. Ever since they were kids, Mickey had been protective. It didn't matter if the problem had originated from Mandy – if something went down, it was the guy who would be on the other end of Mickey's knuckles. Where their communication had died, Mickey knew that by ensuring she was safe it would remind her that he was there for her. He had her back. He hoped she still knew that.

Not much he could do right now, splayed out on his sofa with alcohol in his system, but he could imagine. It offered some satisfaction, but didn't quench it. He wasn't against her doing it – Mickey had long come to terms with the fact that Mandy would do what she wanted anyway – but it still made him fidget. It wasn't the first time he'd had to stay silent about the people he loved doing those kinds of things.

“You, uh, ever had any trouble? You know, since you worked there?” He asked, wearily watching her to search for any lies her eyes would betray. She hesitated.

“There was one time,” she started cautionally, and Mickey immediately tensed. “Some heavy shit went down.”

Mickey patiently, or rather impatiently, waited for further explination. His fingers tapped his leg.

“This guy he- he went too far. Things got out of hand.”

“How out of hand?”  
“Blood everywhere kind of out of hand. I was a fuckin' mess, Mick.” She said, and Mickey sat up straight. He resented himself for not being there for her. “So I uh, called Ian, actually, 'cause I was in town. He helped me,” she said quietly, fondness in her voice.

Mickey's breath hitched slightly. His heart jumped a little, when he thought of Ian stepping in and taking care of his sister. He always had, since the very beginning. A small pang of jealousy rode through him, too – at them being together. At Ian for being with his sister and Mandy for being with Ian. Not separated by plexiglass or by broken hearts. “He did, huh?”

“Yeah. Came up with a totally legal way too,” she chuckled. “'Part from when we lied to the cops.”

Mickey wore a dull smile. His mind reverberated to just a couple of hours ago, when the man himself had been in front of him, and his heart picked up again. “Saw him earlier.”

Mandy made a knowing sound. One that screamed 'so that's why you were on your way to get drunk in your room'. “You okay?”

Mickey nodded, finishing his lukewarm beer and opening another one.

“What'd you do?”

“I fucking skipped up to him and then we went for ice cream, which is why I'm sittin' here getting wasted off shitty beer,” he said, sarcasm not missed.

“You gonna talk to him?”

Mickey swiped his thumb over his lip. “No. I don't know. Maybe.”

“D'you wanna talk to him?” She asked, prompting him.

Mickey barely nodded, head down. Mandy would never know how much, so he didn't bother saying.

“I could talk to him for you,” she offered.

“Nah, no, it's fine. If it happens it ain't gonna be through someone else.”

Mandy understood, and at the same time a yawn escaped her lips. “You tired?”

Mickey shook his head, but his heavy eyelids told a different story. He didn't want to sleep, not yet. Mandy said nothing, but he could tell she was tired. “You can to bed, Mands. I'm good. Don't need a babysitter.”

“Who said anything about a babysitter?” Mandy asked, challenging frown. She jumped off the chair and went to grab two XBOX controllers, tossing one at Mickey. “I'm gonna kick your ass.”

Mickey couldn't help the smile that spread across his lips. They played. They finished the beers and crushed the cans at their feet. They ate pieces of toast and shouted profanities at the screen and at each other. Mandy moved from the seat to the couch, knocking up against Mickey, and then they spent the rest of the game prodding each other with their elbows. Mickey felt like he was sixteen again. When the horizon brightened, they weren't there to witness it – passed out on top of each other, huddled under a blanket.  
Mickey woke up before Mandy. He didn't know what time it was, but the distant vibrating of a phone was enough to drag him, violently, from his not so peaceful slumber. He carefully removed himself from under her. She didn't even twich. He'd always envied her for her good sleep.

He found his phone, and forgot to look at the ID. “Hello?” He grumbled, voice groggy.

“Wake up mr grumpy, little one wants to see other parent.”

He recognised Svetlana's distinct voice. “Asked for me specifically, did he?”

“No. But my tits are tired. And so are my eyes. Need rest.”

Mickey didn't really care what the reason was, he felt a warm feeling rush over him. “All right Sleeping Beauty. I'll take him off your hands.”

He hung up. His head still thumped a little and he hadn't planned on moving today, but his coat was on and he was outside five minutes later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the story's taking a while, i'm sorry. writer's block and time are a bitch. i aim to pick up the pace a little soon.  
> also i think i said in a previous chapter that mandy hadn't seen ian since that her last s5 scene, but i decided to change it and add the canon s6 one, it felt right. sorry for the slight mishap. thank you so much for sticking with it, i really appreciate it. comments are always good! (sorry about the disappointing length, too)  
> (also, i may have had a boost to write this when it was confirmed that my baby is actually coming back. i can't believe it)


End file.
